


The Angel of Saint Stephen's Day

by Hannah_BWTM



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Kidnapping, Malcolm should give up on Christmas altogether, Psychological Trauma, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_BWTM/pseuds/Hannah_BWTM
Summary: How much pressure can sibling love survive?Malcolm awakes to a new nightmare on Boxing Day he never thought possible. An alternate timeline where Paul Lazar does meet Ainsley at Westfield Memorial Hospital in 'Family Friend', and a partnership forms between them that tests the Whitly siblings like never before.Based off of the Whump Server Prompt: Ainsley and John build a relationship and John somehow brainwashes Ainsley into believing that her trial is to kill Malcolm and it comes really, really close... by the indomitable Jameena.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts).



> Hello Prodigies! I am back with a new whumpy fic to distract me from the stresses of a certain challenge that is failing to write itself at the moment. 
> 
> Huge thanks to the amazing [ProcrastinatingSab](/users/ProcrastinatingSab) for all her help in crafting this prompt into something very special that I look forward to sharing with you all. If you haven't read her works yet now is the time!

**Boxing Day- Location Unknown**

The world comes back to Malcolm slowly, first in the pounding of his head, then the burning from stretched hamstrings and calves as a result of his legs being placed straight in front of him. Pins and needles stretch up through his arms which are raised above his head, hands hanging limply and held in place by metal handcuffs. A quick survey of the room he’s in yields few clues, he’s chained to a support beam in a shed of some sort. Light streams in from windows behind him and he faces a wall of nuts, bolts and old tools. He could be anywhere.

This isn’t good. How did he get here?

He remembers dinner at his mother’s house, Ainsley acting weird and trying to talk to her. From there it’s fuzzy.

Malcolm closes his eyes for a moment to muster up the strength to look behind the pole he’s chained to, but before he can move a voice speaks from behind him.

A voice that must be a dream, there’s no way it could be real.

“Good morning, brother.

“Ainsley?” Malcolm groans. 

“It’s not quite the holiday plans you had in mind, is it?” Faux Ainsley inquires. 

“Ains, my head is killing me in this dream, and I am  _ not _ in the mood for a hallucination right now.” Malcolm mumbles.

Faux Ainsley snorts in derision. “Awwwww Bro, I’m a bit offended you think I would be a figment of your damaged psyche. Do I show up often in your nightmares?” 

Malcolm takes a moment to consider the question. The voice is correct, Ainsley is rarely the cause of his sleepless nights.

“That’s what I thought.” Faux Ainsley declares smugly.

“Why are you here?” Malcolm asks the phantom.

The voice answers, heels echoing on the concrete as they walk behind him. “I think the more important question is why are  _ you _ here?”

There’s movement on the edge of his vision and a tailored pair of wide leg pants walks in to view. The same ones Ainsley was wearing last night. The clothes don’t belong in a shed this dirty, so this  _ could _ all just be a dream, but the cuffs feel so real. 

“Ains, I’m not in the mood for games. If you’re really here, then get me out of these cuffs. And if you’re not, then leave me alone.” Malcolm demands.

“I can’t leave you alone brother, and I can’t let you out of your chains, either.” Ainsley replies. Her face is firm, calculating and devoid of any emotion.

“Why can’t you let me out of these? What is this about?” Malcolm asks. The cotton wool feeling hasn’t quite cleared yet, and the stabbing pain that shoots through his head every time he moves is making focussing difficult.

Ainsley crouches down next to Malcolm with a grin on her face. She’s holding one of Malcolm’s stiletto daggers from his loft’s wall of weapons, and she’s twirling the narrow instrument between her fingers in an almost bored fashion. Her eyes are dark as she answers,“Because I’m the one who put you in them.”

“What?! Ainsley, this isn't funny. Get me out of these, my arms are killing me. Please.” Malcolm shakes his arms for effect, wincing as muscles that were trapped in the same position for hours protest at being moved for the first time.  _ That _ feels real, too. 

Ainsley shakes her head and clicks her tongue as a sign of denial. “I’m afraid I can’t. You see, I brought you here for one reason. You have to pay for what you did to our family.”

“Pay for what I did? Ainsley, you’re not making any sense. Let me out of here!” Malcolm’s cries are becoming more desperate as the biting metal starts to chafe his wrists with every frantic movement. This isn’t the sister he knows.

“Nope, not going to happen. I’m going to say my piece, and then I’m going to kill you with your very own stiletto. They are my favourite type of shoe, after all. Killed by your own dagger, by the sister whose life you ruined. Kind of poetic, really”

At the mention of the word dagger his mind throws up a fragment of a memory in his personal horror movie theatre that is his mind. Ainsley is opening the weapons cabinet in his loft, asking about the benefits of one blade type over another. The moment shakes like someone would a magic-8 ball, and the next clip that plays is his sister rushing towards him with a syringe, before the room starts to tilt. 

“Life  _ I _ ruined? What does that even mean? This has to be a dream. I just need to wake up! You don’t know what you’re saying!” Malcom cries.

“This is no dream, brother. You wronged our family, tore it apart and today you will pay the price.” Ainsley declares, her voice fierce with conviction.

“Ains, this isn’t you. I’m your only brother. You can’t kill me, I didn’t even do anything wrong!!” Malcolm shouts. A new voice behind him cuts off Ainsley retort, a smug one at that.

“I think you’ll find your sister always gets what she wants, little Malcolm.” The singsong taunt dimly registers as a memory, and when his brain finally places the voice his veins turn to ice.

“No.” whispers Malcolm.

It’s the voice from the tunnel. Paul Lazar, apprentice to his father and now ally of his sister?!

“Oh yes. I told you in that tunnel that there are some things you cannot teach, Malcolm. It turns out I was talking to the wrong Whitly.”

**4 weeks ago- Westfield Memorial Hospital**

“ _ Do you have a weapon?!”  _ Malcolm cries through the phone as Ainsley hides against a wall in the hospital’s break room.

Ainsley barricaded herself into it when she found the victim who was under police guard dead in their room, and now the killer was chasing her.

Her breathing is panicked as she scans the room for something to defend herself with. The kitchenette is her best bet, but the drawers are as stocked as you would expect a communal break room to be- completely empty. The only thing to grab is the coffee pot as the door rattles behind her, so that’s what she does.

Turning to face the door as a booted foot hits the door  _ one-two-three _ times, the panic Ainsley is feeling gives way to something calmer, more focused. If this turns into a her versus them scenario, she’s winning. The coffee pot smashes as she throws it against the floor; the smooth glass surface now jagged and rough, certainly sharp enough to inflict damage if she needs it to.

Ainsley shouts an update to Malcolm, who she’s forgotten is still on the phone resting on the counter. “I’ve got something.”

“ _ Great. Just hang in there, help is coming _ .”

It’s not coming soon enough. 

The door gives way and Ainsley is face to face with a killer for the second time that day. The imposing man before her is scruffy and unkempt, his eyes are dark and calculating as they dart around the room. As his eyes settle on Ainsley his cold stare dissipates into an expression of surprise.

“Ainsley Whitly, as I live and breathe.” the killer grins.

Ainsley steps to the left of her glassy mess on the floor and raises her makeshift weapon in a clear warning.

“Come any closer and you will regret it.” Ainsley warns.

“Will I?” the man chuckles. “You come across so-  _ angelic _ \- on the TV.”

_ Angelic? What is this guy on? _

The man takes a step towards her, and she jerks her hand up slightly, the glass shards now facing the intruder. The focused energy she felt earlier has morphed again into something else entirely new. She doesn’t  _ think _ she can hurt this man, she  _ knows _ she can.

“I mean it. Stop. Right now.” Ainsley threatens.

The intruder takes another step towards Ainsley, and there’s barely an arms-length separating the two of them now. He leans towards her, studying her face intently for a moment before his smile returns once again.

“Well, would you look at that. Maybe there  _ is _ someone to pick up the family profession after all. I’ll be seeing you, Miss Whitly.”

And with that farewell the killer turns on his heel and leaves.

“What the-“

Ainsley stands there dumbstruck, replaying the interaction in her head. Why would a man who’s just killed three people in cold blood turn around and walk away at the sight of her?

“ _ Ainsley! Ains! Can you hear me! Are you okay?!”  _ Malcolm’s tinny voice is yelling from her phone she abandoned on the kitchenette.

Ainsley steps around the glass to retrieve the phone.

“Malcolm, I’m here, I’m fine.”

“ _ Oh, thank God, I heard a loud bang and thought something had happened.”  _ Malcolm replies, the relief in his voice palpable.

“I uh, I hid in the corner and he didn’t see me.” Ainsley lied. The walls behind her change from white to red and blue- back up has finally arrived.

“The police just showed up, I’ve gotta go and talk to them. I’ll call you later.” Ainsley promises.

“ _ Sure. As long as you’re okay though, sis.” _

“Yeah, I’m fine. Bye.” Ainsley ends the call and spins the phone in her hand while she thinks. Who was that man, and why did he spare her? Did he just recognise her from her work on TV? He spoke to Ainsley as if they already knew each other, but she couldn’t remember him at all. 

Ainsley needed answers. Which meant she needed to find a killer. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chapter! I had the question from my last chapter as to when Boxing Day is- for those who weren't aware Boxing Day is December 26th.

The junkyard wasn’t difficult for Ainsley to find. She had pulled the address from the database at work and made the trip out to the Bronx after her last live cross the following day. The navy wool coat and thick heeled boots she was wearing was against her usual TV presenter persona, and her hair was tied up in a simple elastic away from her face. She hadn’t been recognised so far.

The crime scene was still being guarded by NYPD at the gate so a snoop around the place was off the cards, much to her annoyance. The bright lights from the gas station next door added to the gloomy landscape adjacent to it, and it made Ainsley’s life difficult to make any details out from her position on the street. After a quick walk around the block revealed no clues, she makes her way back to her car which is parked a couple of blocks down. A familiar voice emanates from the shadows cast by the building behind her.

“I was wondering if you were curious like your brother.” Paul Lazar sounds amused more than upset. Ainsley’s heart starts hammering in her chest in excitement. She takes a steadying breath before turning around to meet the killer’s eyes for the second time in as many days.

“It’s kind of in my job description, Mr Lazar. And your kill scene wasn’t that hard to find. I’ve had harder assignments.” Ainsley answers.

Paul laughs, his teeth bright against the scruffy beard adorning his face. “I’m sure you have, Miss Whitly. So you obviously wanted to find me, and I presume it’s not to say thank you for sparing you at the hospital.” 

“No. I have questions that need answers.” Ainsley replies.

“Questions as a journalist, or as the daughter of a serial killer?” Paul teases.

Ainsley considers the question before answering. She decides to go with the truth. “Both.”

Paul laughs again. “I gotta give you points for honesty. Why don’t we find somewhere a little less dangerous for someone like you to talk.”

“You think there’s something out here more dangerous than you?” Ainsley scoffs. But if she’s honest with herself she doesn’t feel scared with Paul. Something in her subconscious is telling her to trust him.

“You may be right on that one.” Paul concedes. He hands her a note with an address and a time on it. “If you want answers meet me here. Alone, of course. And strictly off the record. If I catch a whiff of a camera or your brother I’ll be gone.”

Ainsley takes the note without a glance and steps into her car. “I’ll think about it.” She shuts the door behind her quickly and allows herself another deep breath before starting the car. Paul hasn’t made a move towards her car; he stays in the building’s shadow until she turns the corner towards home.

Ainsley’s hands shake as the adrenaline pumping through her system wears off, and she clamps down on the steering wheel to stop the tremors. A part of her appreciates the irony in mirroring Malcolm’s coping mechanism after meeting a murderer.

An initial off-the-record meeting might lead to something on-the-record later, which would push her rookie career into the stratosphere. And if it all went south she could call Malcolm with a tip, her camera crew at the ready to record the take down of New York’s biggest serial killer since her father.

It was a win-win situation.

A tiny part of her considered for a moment that she should just call Malcolm, tell him where Paul will be and be done with it. The thought is dismissed as quickly as it appeared. If she is willing to lose her boyfriend for the sake of a story, holding off on calling the police for a day or two until she figures this out is nothing.

******************************

**36 hours later**

It’s peak hour at the lunch bar Paul selected for their meeting. Truck drivers queue at the counter waiting to order their pies, sausages and club sandwiches before heading back out onto the road. It’s loud and chaotic, which would make any attempt to eavesdrop or record their conversation much more difficult. Ainsley can see that this guy is definitely a pro at covering his tracks. She orders a coffee to go with a dubious looking Caesar salad and waits for her acquaintance to arrive. A part of her is vibrating with excitement, the same way she always feels at the start of a new story.

The excitement abates when Paul is fifteen minutes late. She decides to wait another five minutes before giving up. Her salad had arrived in the meantime, but lettuce was warm and wilting, and it was drowning in so much mayo it rendered the dish inedible.

“He’s not coming.” Ainsley mutters to herself as she gathers her coat and bag, annoyed that she’d even entertained the idea of meeting a killer in the first place. She’s just about to push the chair out to leave when a man in a black puffer jacket, jeans and navy cap walks over to her table and sits down.

‘It seems that curiosity hasn’t killed this cat just yet.” The killer quotes cryptically.

Ainsley is not in the mood for games.

“I only get so much time for chasing down leads, and you made me eat the worst Caesar salad I’ve ever had.” she hisses.

“Oh, so I’m just a lead, am I?” Paul smirks.

“No, no that’s not all.” Ainsley sighs. “It’s just been a big couple of days, and this place is pretty noisy.”

“I know, isn’t it great? So many people moving about, wrapped up in their own little world. I’ve found many a lost soul here.”

Ainsley’s ears perk up at the turn of phrase.

“Lost souls, as in your victims?” Ainsley presses. Paul rubs his beard, breaks into a smile and studies her a second.

“Is that what you came here to talk about today? I wondered if you had something else in mind.”

Ainsley considers her options for a moment. The journalist in her can sense that Paul will let down his guard for her, and she could be about to break the story of the decade. But the questions she has about what she feels burn more brightly than any professional curiosity.

In a heartbeat she decides for herself. “No, it’s not what I want to talk about. Why didn’t you kill me at the hospital? I feel as if I know you.”

Paul smiles. “I wondered if you would remember.”

“Remember what?” Ainsley asks.

Paul hums a tune, singing the final lines out loud;

“ _The bad little angels fall, fall down, tumble down and never get to heaven._ ”

The song triggers a memory in Ainsley; suddenly she’s five years old again and playing tea parties in her room with her teddies.

“How do you know that song?”

“I taught it to you, of course.” Paul says simply.

“What do you mean, you taught it to me? How?”

“Did you keep the angel I gave you?”

Another memory flashes in front of her eyes; the angel figurine that watched over her on the mantlepiece in her bedroom clear as day in her mind’s eye. The angel disappears and the image of a tall man in a dark jumper and pants looms over her, before kneeling down to offer the figurine.

“She’ll always protect you, Miss Ainsley. She’ll protect you when I can’t.” the man promises.

“She’s so pretty.” Ainsley replies, as she marvels the shiny glaze covering the ceramic figure.

Ainsley comes back to the busy diner, and she looks up at Paul Lazar, the Junkyard Killer with new eyes.

“ _Mr Boots_?”

Paul can’t hide the smile that breaks out on to his face at the mention of his old moniker.

“There’s my angel. Now, what would you like to know?”

******************************

**Present Day**

_“I told you in that tunnel that there are some things you cannot teach, Malcolm. It turns out I was talking to the wrong Whitly.”_

“Paul.” Malcolm whispers.

“Not quite the Christmas you had in mind, is it? And to think, all this time you were searching for me, your sister knew where I was all along.” Paul taunts.

Malcolm’s brain whirs like crazy as he tries to piece the scant clues he’s been given, but there’s too many pieces missing and he can’t make out the picture.

“What? How?” Malcolm asks himself. He looks up at Ainsley, attempting to find another clue as to how he got here. “He’s lying, right?”

Ainsley’s mouth tightens into a rueful grin. “You would prefer that, wouldn’t you? You see, it turns out we have a connection. One that you severed when our father was arrested. We managed to reconnect at the hospital.”

“The hospital? But you said he didn’t see you. What do you mean you have a connection?” Malcolm winces as each question that forms seem to make the pounding in his head feel even worse. She’s not making any sense.

“I lied at the hospital.” Ainsley admits. “We spoke, and Paul saw something in me that he recognised. A kindred spirit.”

“Ainsley, you’ve never hurt anyone. How can you say you’re the same as _him_?” Malcolm can’t hide his disgust.

“She hasn’t hurt anyone _yet_. That’s why you’re here.” Paul explains.

Malcolm whimpers as a wave of nausea rolls through his body. His worry at what Paul is intimating rises with every passing second, and there’s no sign of help.

“It’s okay, Malcolm,” Paul coos softly, “We all have a part to play in life. And we are very grateful for your help with Ainsley’s trial.”

“Trial?” Malcolm sighs, “What are you talking about?”

“I need to sever ties with my past in order to move forward.” Ainsley volunteers. The silver of the dagger flashes in her hand as she rolls the handle between her palm. In his fatigued state the sight is almost hypnotising, and he nearly misses what she says next. “I need some practice before Paul and I leave town.”

Malcolm is momentarily struck dumb at the implication. Whatever this is, it won’t be quick. Despairing at the feeling of helplessness that threatens to engulf him, Malcolm scrambles to move his feet under him. Ainsley takes a step back while he moves and the only sound in the shed is his dress shoes scratching on the floor and the strained groans emanating from Malcolm’s chest.

He manages to get his feet under himself and push up into a squatting position. Using his hands to grasp the pole behind him he manages to end up standing upright. The world is spinning, and he’s panting as though he’s just finished a marathon, but he’s up. After closing his eyes for a moment to steady the room, he reopens them to the sight of Paul and Ainsley with identical smirks on their faces.

“What?” Malcolm asks, loading every ounce of sarcasm into his voice.

“You made that look hard, brother.” Ainsley answers.

It doesn’t matter what she thinks. If he’s standing, they’re on equal footing. Malcolm has a better chance of convincing Ainsley to forget this madness if she’s not looking down on him all the time. There’s no time like the present to start trying. 

“Ainsley, we grew up together. I love you, and I know you love me. This isn’t you.” Malcolm implores his sister.

Ainsley rolls her eyes. “Don’t presume to know what is and isn’t me, brother.”

“Malcolm. My name is Malcolm.”

“I’ll call you what I want. Now, we need to get this show on the road. Where do you want the first one?” Ainsley asks, as the dagger comes to a stop in her hand. She holds the blade to her temple, as if pondering some great thought.

Malcolm gulps, his heart rate spiking at the question. “The first what?” He’s pretty sure he knows what, but doesn’t want to give her any ideas.

Ainsley smiles. “The first cut, silly. I need to work up to the final act. Stabbing you with the sedative was fun and all, but this is different.”

“I’m not going to choose something like that.” Malcolm shakes his head in disbelief.

“Oop, dealer’s choice it is, then!” Ainsley exclaims.

“Remember your father’s notes, Ainsley. Avoid the bone structures.” Paul suggests. 

“Dad’s notes? What have you been doing with this guy? How does he know our father?” Malcolm questions. The notion that Ainsley and this killer have discussed prime stabbing locations before today sits like a stone in his stomach. The betrayal is ever more pronounced by the fact that his father is also involved. Somehow.

“Paul’s been very helpful these last few weeks, brother. He knows more about our family than you could possibly imagine. Now, back to business.”

Malcolm shuffles to the side of the pole, looking for something, _anything_ to protect himself from an oncoming attack.

“Ainsley, please. Remember when we were kids, I have always looked out for you, I saved you from our father. You don’t want to do this!”

A cloud settles over Ainsley and her expression darkens.

“You would think you saved me, wouldn’t you. That’s just _so_ typical of you.” Ainsley mocks.

Malcolm takes a deep breath and searches Ainsley’s eyes for a connection. “Look, sis. I know you, I know you won’t go through with this. Let me out and we can talk about this. Please.”

“The profiler thinks he _knows_ me? How sweet.”

The build up of the exhaustion he feels in his bones and the nerves from the situation becomes too much, and the words are coming out before Malcolm can stop them.

“Of course I know you Ains, now let me out of here so Gil can arrest Paul. He’s a killer, and you’re standing here like he’s your Uncle or something. You don’t have in in you to-“

“STOP IT!!”

Malcolm doesn’t get to finish the sentence as Ainsley rushes him all at once and the dagger is plunged into his chest just below the collar bone. The force behind the jab isn’t enough to bury the whole blade to the hilt, but it’s travelled in far enough. Malcolm stares at the handle of his stiletto dagger lodged in his chest in shock before a blood curdling scream rents out of him, his broken voice filling the shed and echoing off the sheet metal walls.

Ainsley stares him in shock for a moment before rushing him again to yank the dagger out, and Malcolm can feel the hot sticky blood pooling against his shirt in an instant. He can’t stay on his feet, and he slides slowly down to the floor again, hitting the concrete with a thud. Concentrating on his breathing, he barely notices Paul walking up behind Ainsley and placing two hands on her shoulders in a supportive way.

“That’s my girl.” Paul mumbles.

Ainsley is panting from the exertion and the adrenaline, she takes a moment to right herself before the smallest of grins returns to her face.

“You thought I couldn’t do it, huh? Guess I proved both of us wrong.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to hang out with some awesome artists and find more amazing prompts to write please join me on the [Prodigal Whump](https://discord.gg/GXteMGT) and [PSon Trash](https://discord.gg/p3K3twh) (18+) servers on Discord!


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